


Hearing Things I Won't Believe

by puella_nerdii



Category: Suikoden I
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Masturbation, ambiguous ghostsex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Soul Eater in his hand, Tir's never alone, even when he really needs to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearing Things I Won't Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Suikoden kink meme](http://marksofstars.livejournal.com/9216.html), part of the [marksofstars](marksofstars.livejournal.com) event on Livejournal. Prompt: _Tir, Tir/Gremio or Tir/Ted if you go for that. The difficulties of masturbating with the objects of your desire dead in your left hand._

He's been oversleeping again. He knows it's not the kind of example he should set for the rest of his army, or whatever it was that Cleo scolded him about last time, but he can't help it. In the daytime, the Rune's whispers blend into the other castle sounds, but at night there's nothing to mask them. He's tried to focus on the water washing up against the castle's walls instead, the distant laughs coming from the tavern, even the thin droning of the bugs the cats haven't killed yet. It works for a few minutes, and then he drifts, and another sound snags his attention. A laugh like Ted's, echoing somewhere inside him. A hum that could be Odessa's. His father's rumbling sigh, like he just came home from months of campaigning and wants to sit down again—

_Young Master._

— and that.

 _Stop it_ , Tir thinks, and buries his face in his pillow. 

A storm's going to break soon; the night air's thick enough to weigh on his skin, push against his chest. It hasn't taken a shape but it almost could, the way a cloud does, and a slow tingle spreads under his skin. The hair on the back of his neck stirs, despite the wet heat. He coughs to clear his throat and the heat starts to solidify, presses against his eyelashes and nose and chin.

 _You never could get any sleep during thunderstorms, not even when you were small_ , he remembers Gremio telling him. _I remember seconds after I tucked you in, you'd be out of your bed like a kitchen mouse, scampering into my room—oh, you mustn't think that, Young Master, it was never any trouble at all! I only worried you wouldn't get a wink of sleep, and I daresay I haven’t stopped worrying about that, considering how late you and that boy stay up—_

Tir curls in on himself, squeezes his eyes shut, tries to breathe but the air sucks the moisture from his mouth and he parts his lips for—something. Not breath, really, and not speech either. But something.

Sweat sticks his pajamas to his skin, even though he shivers. He opens his eyes, stares at whatever parts of his room he can make out in the starlight. Why did Mathiu insist on giving him so much space? It's yawning around him, swallowing up the stars until he barely sees them at all. 

_Young Master, are you all right?_

Tir's veins ache.

The itch under his skin pulses and swells until he knows where his blood's rising to the surface without having to look. He slides his hand down his chest, over his heart. His left, he realizes, and pulls it back, clenches it into a fist and forces it to stay at his side. The energy curling under the back of his hand quiets, for now. That should snap him out of this, but it doesn't. Both his hands are shaking, his palms slick with sweat. Maybe this isn't even the Rune's doing, he thinks. Maybe—

He rests the knuckles of his right hand on his hipbone and shudders, arches into the touch and splays his fingers out so they almost reach his groin. He's hot there, burning through his clothes, and when he slides his hand lower the surge of heat knocks him breathless. _Oh_ , he thinks, panting, and closes his eyes. The wetness in the air clings to him, draws out his sweat. When it trickles down his chest it feels almost like a slow sticky line of kisses, and his left hand twitches.

Something gathers at the hollow of his throat, warm and pulsing, and before he can stop himself his left hand is there, tracing circles over his skin. _No_. He pries it off again, and the pressure's a little less now, but the warmth that lingers isn't just his own.

Another memory strikes him like lightning: trying to climb into Gremio's bed during one of those thunderstorms and press his cheek to Gremio's back the way he used to, and Gremio saying _Pardon me, Young Master, but I'm not sure…_

Tir clenches his fingers on his thigh, shaking. The heat in his groin still spreads, though, turns into a burn he can't ignore. Everything tightens, from the corners of his eyes down to his toes. When he finally shoves down his pants and takes hold of himself, that tightness starts to uncoil at the base of his spine. But not for long, because now his hips tense and arch up, push towards something he can't reach. 

The air's too thick to move fast. He's already gasping for breath, and the more he does the more it feels like something warm's covering his mouth, drinking his air away. _Young Master, you're burning up_ , the voice says, the _Rune_ says, and he'd punch his pillow to make it go away but he's too old for that now. He flips onto his stomach to give himself more to grind against, but it's not enough to drive the voice away. Or the pictures, because they're creeping into his mind, too. The warmth of Gremio's cloak when Tir used to tuck himself under it. The tangled thickness of his hair when Tir used to pull it. The soft curve of Gremio's mouth, and how soft it would have been if Tir had kissed it.

Oh. Oh no. He didn't mean to, the picture just popped into his head—but now that it's here, it's not going away.

He rests his forehead on his arm and thrusts into his other hand and it's still not enough, no matter how hard he rocks his hips. He digs his knuckles into the pillow to push himself higher and the Rune brushes his ear—that shouldn't make a difference, he knows he's not _hearing_ it like that when it talks, but this time the voice, Gremio's voice, is almost warm on the side of his face, like his breath's ghosting over Tir's skin. _It's all right, Young Master, you don't need to hide that from me. Let me help you._

The corners of his eyes sting. He doesn't know how to make them stop doing that. He doesn't know if he can.

"Please," he whispers. His throat cracks. Something else might too, deeper inside.

This time, he doesn't stop his left hand from circling his right. That hand almost seems broader than his own now, rough in different places, and for all he knows it _did_ change its shape. He can't look. A new ache swells in his groin, blistering and desperate, and when the voice whispers to him again it echoes in every inch of his body. _I've got you now. There, don't worry, it's all right. I've got you._

Whatever he meant to say to that gets strangled in his throat when he comes.

Breathing is more like choking now, even if the air's not as solid anymore. It hurts. He rolls onto his back to make it easier. It doesn't help much. His left hand's still curled over his groin, and he's too tired to move it away.

Tir opens his eyes and waits for the storm to break.


End file.
